


The Silver Serpent

by GBblahblahblah



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Rivalry, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), Marauders Friendship (Harry Potter), Other, Pureblood Society (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28548459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GBblahblahblah/pseuds/GBblahblahblah
Summary: Pureblood princess and Slytherin bitch Cynthia Nott could not be further from what one thinks of when the infamous rebel, the Silver Serpent, is mentioned. But then again that is the irony of the situation. Still not even Cynthia Nott, allusive spy and assassin, is immune to the whims and wishes of her own heart, no matter how hard she pretends to be. And despite how much she hates him, Sirius Black might just be what she needs as she embarks on her final year at Hogwarts.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Marlene McKinnon/Dorcas Meadowes, Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Regulus Black/Original Female Character(s), Sirius Black/James Potter, Sirius Black/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 6





	The Silver Serpent

**Author's Note:**

> Hey welcome to the prologue of my new marauders era Sirius Black x OC story. Hope you enjoy and if you do please comment and add kudos. They really help. Thankyou!

The Rosier's parties are always extravagant, a sweeping sprawl of wealth displayed in its finest form. Everyone who is anyone attends these gatherings, from Ministry leaders to important members of elite society. It's far fetched compared to the smaller house parties and meetings her family often frequent to discuss all the important society controversies and, of course, the inevitable war that sits precariously just out of sight. This, however, is no place for such dour discussions. This is a party and although the gossip spills almost as easily as the champagne the people at least don their masks far better, smiles wider and easier to come by. This isn't the darkness that she hears whispers of in the streets. Not the meetings behind closed doors that she listens into, endless and horrifying in their gruesome details. This is the society that has always lived in splendour, the elite of the Wizarding World all jostling for a moment in the spotlight.

And in the centre of this divinity stands Cynthia Nott. A girl sculpted by the society who has raised her. Her body is slight but she holds a certain air of confidence in herself as she glides elegantly across the room, watching and listening expertly to the conversations around her. Her brother is the master of this world though. All smooth charm and easy grins, his confidence is a focal point despite his mere seventeen years and people flock to him to behold his stories and opinions. Cynthia is merely his shadow, and although the thought had once bothered her she now relies on it – the shadows speak far more when they don't realise they are being watched.

"Corvette Bulstrode must be mortified, her dearest pure blooded daughter running off and marrying some dirty mudblood. Their line is ruined." Evan Rosier sneers as the aforementioned Mrs Bulstrode walks past, head bowed.

"Their reputation too. Although I've heard the boy is sympathetic to our cause." Her brother says, his tone smooth as he takes a long sip of his glass. Evan raises his brow at that tidbit of information, obviously unaware of such matters or beliefs held by the mudblood. She knows the muggleborn boy to be Thomas Witherhall, a Slytherin from only four or so years ahead of her at school. But that is only through her mother's copious research and Dumbledore's sources. Her brother and his friends likely have no clue. A big part of her doubts that the boy is really an adamant believer in the Dark Lord's teachings, no muggleborn is so naive, but she doesn't voice such opinions aloud. Instead she just nods along, sipping her own champagne slowly. She's been nursing the same glass for the past three hours unbeknownst to her counterparts. Alcohol does little to help the senses, and she needs all the edge she can get for what she is about to do.

"I don't care if he's the Dark Lord's biggest admirer. His blood is dirt. And now hers is too." Adrian Mulciber scorns in disdain at the idea of a muggleborn ally. Mulciber is often times clouded by such disgust when it comes to these sorts of conversation topics, quick to lose his temper or show his hand. His father is much the same, loud mouthed and violent. Maybe that is why his mother always seems so meek, cowering beneath the men of her family and hiding from any attention.

"And remember that horrid dress she wore last year to the Black's New Year's Eve Gala. She looked like a trussed up sausage." One of the older girls giggles out, relieving the tension with her idiocy. The brunette has been hanging around Evan all evening, and the looks they keep giving each other are nothing but ravenous. She bets they'll be in some broom closet by the end of the evening. In fact she almost hopes they are, least then she won't have to bear witness to the lustful gazes they keep exchanging and the pitiful jokes they keep making to entertain one another.

"I swear her dress wasn't much better. She looked like a bloody flamingo." Narcissa whispers under her breath beside her. Cynthia snorts into her cup at the comment but they both quickly disguise their jabs behind bored masks when her brother raises a brow at them. Narcissa is right though, she remembers the neon pink gown the girl had worn. The feathers had looked awful and with the giant headpiece it had really drawn some clearly wantedattention to her. Not that she needed the headpiece to do that. Her massive gob did it that all on its own.

"It was something for sore eyes."

"I know you secretly dream of that dress."Narcissa mutters sarcastically. Cynthia smirks into her glass, mockingly replying, "yes, in fact I might have to borrow it for my wedding."

"Oh and what are the bridesmaids going as? Pigeons?"

"I was thinking more pigs. You know keep the pink scheme going." The two meet eyes over the rims of their glasses, mischief swirling in both.

"Maybe I'll have to borrow the sausage costume from Bulstrode then."

"I don't remember saying you were a bridesmaid."

"Shut up, you would need me to be one. I'm one of the only friends you have." Cynthia smirks at the jibe, pointing at her empty glass and motioning that she is going to get another.

"I don't remember us being friends either." She drawls seriously as she turns to walk away but it is merely her way of affection. The two of them have always stuck close at events like these. Katherine too, but she's off somewhere helping play host this evening and too busy to engage in their usual back and forth repertoire. All they need is Isabel to finish the foursome off, but as always she's galavanting off around Europe. To be honest, even when she is available the offer is sometimes not extended to her family. She's a halfblood, unlike the rest of them, but what she lacks in purity she makes up for in her extravagant personality. Not that the elite of society view that as part of the criteria to get into their little events. Hence Isabel only being invited to the occasional gathering.

As Cynthia passes across the room, she catches her mother's eye at a distant gathering of middle aged women and receives the nod. The nod that indicates it is time. The nod she hates but loves. _The nod_. Cynthia in turn nods back discreetly, quickly passing through the doors towards the bathroom, or at least towards that general direction. She passes a few couples in the hallways, whispering closely to one another. Cynthia chats to a few of them as she passes, answering their questions and just indicating to them that she needs the toilet and maybe some fresh air. They are her alibi of sorts. People who will account for her absence in the main party gallery. And besides they all bask in the attention she gives them as she compliments their outfits or smiles at them. Her family is part of the sacred twenty eight, her father is revered by all who know him and she, well she is his perfect daughter.

Cynthia knows these people. Perhaps that is why she is so good at playing their little games. She understands the ways to flatter them, their thirst for attention and praise. They dress to the nines and party like their banks are endless but in the end they all live a tiresome life of monotonous routine, of grovelling and gambling and endless climbing for more. But Cynthia weaves them a different tale. Her brother and her compliment with such ease that the lies fall like honey from their mouths. And these people, the masterminds of society, become so easily addicted to the taste.

Xxx

The wind blows hollow in the empty tunnels, carrying with it distant echoes of the revelry and chatter of the society gathering above. Cynthia has long blocked out the faint hum of the accompanying orchestra however, instead listening for any indicators that she is being watched or trailed, a solitary step against the cold concrete floor or the rustle of cloth against prickled skin. She hears nothing though. Only the faint whisper of her own breath against the wall she presses herself into, its musky scent a clear sign of the years it has weathered inside the manor's walls. She'd been informed of these hidden tunnels months ago and yet even after many uses she has not become accustomed to the damp smell that floods each crevice and the cramped height that even she has to contort herself to fit through. She does though with unquestioned ease, smooth and silent as she inches her way through a narrow passageway that if Ben's estimates are correct will lead to the exit she'll take out of here. Thank Godric. Her steps are evenly placed and her eyes stay down turned and focused on the concrete slate beneath her feet, all slightly unhinged with the years of pressure on them. The ones to the left offer less noise so she takes those, avoiding the ones she's memorised as slightly creaky or particularly slippy.

She'd been ecstatic earlier when she'd opened the hidden shaft from the bottom of the old porter cupboard to find the change of clothes readily prepared for her in the nondescript black bag. She'd make sure to give Dumbledore an extra smile for that if she found herself reporting back to him on Tuesday evening as planned. And along with the change of clothes had come her trusted slippers. With the delicacy of fine jewellery paired with an unmatched grip, they were far more useful- and comfortable- than those hideous heels she'd worn beneath her usual finery. Merlin, those heels were like a punishment from the Dark Lord himself, the fourth unforgivable curse if you asked her on a particularly long evening. After that it had just been the usual "immutatio" spell to alter her appearance to some random features and she'd been winding through the tunnels towards the dungeons, trusted knives tucked away into the hidden compartments of her midnight black attire.

She keeps one safety in the grip of her hand as she draws closer to the exit way that is only indicated by the small set of bricks that seem slightly displaced and discoloured in the surroundings under the cast of the light from the top of her wand. It flickers as she nears however, the barrier draining her magic as per usual and drowning her in endless shadow once again. Only selected guards are allowed the use of magic in the dungeons she's learnt. More precautions against her. Just makes her job all the more difficult. Murder with her wand is so much easier... and far less messy.

Her fingers reach out to steady herself as she takes a tentative step into the dark and she offers herself a moment to adjust to the lack of light, eyes filtering in the blurry shapes of the walls and ceiling of the tunnel. She waves her hand in front of her as a marker of sorts and when she begins to see the movement and not just swirling back dots she lets her fingers adjust on the wall, feeling out for the indent her mother had apparently carved into it to help her open the secret hatch much easier. Apparently before her mother had had to waste precious minutes dislodging the long ago sealed exit point so it would open, but now with an easy and steady grip of her fingernails in the small indent Cynthia can shift the small square stone covering and slide through the gap with a practiced ease. Her feet barely make a sound as she lands effortlessly, knees quickly crouched, poised and ready for any threats should they appear. With no sign of any, she quickly swings the stone hatch back into place, effectively sealing off her only alternative escape route shall the mission go awry. It won't though. She isn't one to make careless mistakes.

Tiptoeing through the long dark passages of the dungeons below the Rosier family home, Buscort Park, Cynthia monitors each step that hums off the old walls and into the hidden alcoves she has her lean body pressed into. Two guards then if the two sets of footsteps indicate anything. According to her estimations they would have changed shifts only ten minutes ago and with the change of shift should have come the two guards who had been enjoying the revelry upstairs with the pure blooded guests earlier. At least that is according to the rota she'd found a few days ago upon her family's house visit to see the Rosiers about the betrothal between Katherine and her brother. The two are hopefully the ugly pair who'd been content with downing whatever spare alcohol they could get their clammy little hands on. Godric, the help was pathetic at events like this. Her mother would be appalled if their staff ever did such a thing. But despite her disagreement with their professionalism, their drunken mumblings offer her the necessary cover to begin.

Silently she slips her trusted lock pick from her pocket into her palm; she smiles as the engraved silver serpent, the one that adorns all of her weapons, glints in the nearby wand light of one of the passing guards. She breaths in as he struts past her hiding spot humming some bawdy tune to himself about tits and sex. That one is Gingham then, with the cobalt head of hair that shrouds his face in shadow and ages him with even more defined wrinkles. He's heavily portioned, but his steps are surprisingly light for a man of his figure and Cynthia doesn't know whether to blame the alcohol or the lack of it in his system. He doesn't seem on high alert for any intrusions but she's never too sure. She has got herself quite a reputation for jobs like this and security is usually at least present nowadays just in case.

He turns the corner soon enough though and Cynthia moves silently down the left passage he'd turned down, shadowing him for any signs of Proudfoot. The inmate is supposedly in cell six, but the dungeons offer little light apart from his wand so it's hard to get a good look at any of the other prisoners without drawing any kind of attention to herself. The two offer a little help however, huddling around the same cluster of cells and taking turns to survey the circumference or chatter between themselves about their evening and the women they are hoping to bed when they finish their hour down here. A pretty golden haired servant girl for Gingham, and for the other, Roderfield, his wife of three years who apparently has the nicest tits in town. If so, Cynthia thinks the girl is really downgrading herself with such an abhorrent bore and drunkard. Even his face is plain and despite his thirty- two years he looks far older, crouched slightly and weighed down by the exhaustion that is beginning to settle in. The drugs then, effective as always.

"No one coming to save you here is there? No pretty silver snake like those stories, filthy blood traitor." Gingham mocks, rattling at the bars of one of the cells he walks past. He spits as he slurs out blood traitor, and she sees a flash of telltale blonde hair in the wandlight, long and shaggy from days spent here but still youthful on the young Auror. She had had to wait for the opportune moment to release him back into Phoenix custody and the celebratory party had proved just the time. Fenston 'Proudfoot' was labelled far too valuable to risk any information being extracted from him, with his position as one of the closest advisors against death eaters at the Ministry of Magic and a widely known Auror. He's always been a bit public for Cynthia's own taste, and an impulsive Gryffindor hothead at that. Always off on one rant or another about his beliefs. No wonder he found himself caged, she thinks. The Dark Lord has never been fond of stray dogs, better to put them down before they have the chance to bite him.

"Leave him alone, fucking traitor hasn't said a peep since Mr Rosier locked him down here. Think he's gone mute." Roderfield sneers before getting up off his chair in front of the cell, patting Gingham's back and beginning to walk in her direction, patrolling the cells with a pronounced gait to his step, shoes scuffling louder on the floor than Gingham's had. His eyes look droopy even from this far and Cynthia just hopes he turns the corner before he passes out, so that she doesn't have to catch him in the other ones direct line of vision. She presses herself into the bars of one cell as he strolls by and quickly shadows after him as he continues up the hallway, staying a good few metres behind and close to the walls should he turn or Gingham look their way. In the end he barely makes it past the corner before falling into the wall, his body going slack in her arms as she catches him and hauls him into a sitting position further up the passageway. She almost feels bad when his head hits against the worn stones with a painful thud but soon reminds herself that this man is likely even worse than the details she managed to find on him earlier. Much worse.

"Roderfield!" His accompanying guard calls out now that his friend's loud footsteps have suddenly halted, and Cynthia takes the opportunity to readily sneak through the back halls of the dungeons and towards the opposite side of Proudfoot's cell than where she had been earlier. She watches eagerly as with one last glance back at his prized inmate Gingham trudges back down the aisle, retracing his companion's steps just as she'd hoped. Cynthia has no time for pride though. She seizes the opportunity, pick lock in hand as she scuttles across the hall to the front of his barred cell. Bleary blue eyes stare back at her own, and she watches a thousand emotions fly across his face as he groggily attempts to stand, realising that this is not the usual taunts from the guard but in fact a rescue. He opens his mouth but she quickly throws her finger over her own lips, signalling for him to shut up as she carefully spins the lock into place, hearing the cogs line up with a gentle click. Just like that the tension in the bars give way, and the door swings open with a slight creak. The neighbouring prisoners are now mumbling at the noise, peering from their own cells and Cynthia knows she's running out of time to get him out of here before Gingham finds Roderfield and knows that she is here.

"Listen very carefully, I need you to wait near the stairs for me. Take a sharp left, then right, then straight forward until you see the light trickle in. Don't stop, don't hesitate, don't look back. Understood?" She whispers as she picks the chains from his hands, twisting them open and revealing the bleeding blisters that have marred his exposed wrists. Proudfoot only nods in understanding, giving himself a few seconds to catch his bearings before setting off, albeit at a much slower pace than she was hoping for, in the opposite direction just as Gingham's shouts echo down the hall towards the escaping pair.

"Remember, sharp left, then right,"she whispers.

"—then straight forward until I see the light." He finishes for her.

"If I'm not there in five minutes, you take the window closest to the stairs, okay. It's unlocked and a bit of a drop but you'll be fine. Then round the back into the clearing to the left. In the woods beyond, two people will be waiting to pick you up. Tell them 15 and if I'm not out then they can light it up. They'll understand what I mean."

"Are you sure you don't want m"

"—go, now." She pushes him and with one last worried look back to her his feet move away, turning towards the left just as she'd told him thankfully.

"The Silver Serpent... saving traitors yet again." A voice cracks from behind her.

"Well I wouldn't want to disappoint you all by not doing my job." She spins to face him, noticing the shock that crosses his face when he registers the young brunette girl before him. It is soon replaced by anger, lots and lots of anger.

"You're not exactly how they described you. Found yourself a new skin, have you?" His dreary, slightly drunk features from earlier are alight with a sadistic smile that almost glows in his own wand light, anger and pride intertwining in a dangerous dance as he takes a confident step closer to her, wand raised to point at her, albeit hesitantly.

"Yes, though I wish I could say the same for you. Turns out you're just as hideous in person as what was described to me." She wipes her hand across her thigh with a nonchalant ease, not bothering to keep the eye contact that he is so reluctant to break. He's smarter than she anticipated. Taking his eyes off of her would have been his first mistake. Her most trusted knife is in place though, which is what she had been checking to begin with, and she takes her own step forward, her mocking smile widening when he thrusts his wand violently at her as though wielding a sword.

"Why don't you put the wand away." She speaks softly but the sarcasm is clear. She always wonders why they don't just shock her to begin with. It's what she would do if the situation was reversed. But they always like to play with tier food. Idiots, the lot of them.

"Never." His cheeks redden at the patronising tone and she feels him spit, tiny droplets raining down on her as she wipes them away with a disgusted flick of her wrist across each cheek.

"Mummy clearly didn't teach you any manners, huh?"

"She taught me about bitches like you. Taught me how to fuck them into place, how to kill them with a single spell if I want to. It's two words, begins with A, think even you might have heard of it, traitor scum."

"Didn't realise we were playing hangman. Is there an D in it too?" Cynthia balances herself against the closest cell, bars digging into her shoulder with an almost reassuring coolness to them. Make him angry. Pretend you're not scared. Make him angry. Pretend you're not scared.

"You think you're funny little girl?" His anger is apparent. Not one for jokes them, she thinks to herself.

"I can be when the occasion arises."

"I could kill you where you stand this second, you know that right?" He presses his wand into her throat, the point resting uneasily in the hollow dent just between her collarbones. She hates this part. Throat bobbing. Wondering if her planning will save her after all. Fingers clenching white crescent moons into her palms. Reminding herself to breathe.

"Yes and I bet you'd take far too much pleasure from it...But you won't do it. Not tonight" she scoffs as much as she can with the wand against her jugular, cool wood choking her slightly. Her eyes don't leave his own. " You want to know why? Because you've been told that if I turn up I have to be handed in to Mr Rosier or Voldemort. You can't kill me."

"Doesn't mean I can't hurt you a bit." His face widens in a malicious grin, taunt muscles flexing with pride at the predicament he thinks he has got her into.

"You could. But you won't, not badly."

"You sure about that?" He flicks his wrist and she's hit with a stunning spell that even her feet can't hold under. Her knees buckle and she falls backwards, arms outstretched to catch her as she rolls smoothly back into a crouching position. Her bones ache with the thrum of unfamiliar magic and her wince is noticeable as she hauls her body back up against the bars, gripping them with chalk clenched fists to stop herself from exposing just how lethal she could become. From withdrawing her weapons quite yet.

"Yes I am." She cricks her neck, eyes on him as she turns her head from side to side, all lightheartedness void from her tone despite the calmness of her words.

"62 Oak Street. That's your mother's address right?"

Where Gingham had just been shifting lightly from foot to foot before; now he goes almost deadly still.

"You bitc"

"—and if you don't put the wand down and let me walk out of here with no more injuries then I think next time you visit her won't be there, it will be at the cemetery." She drawls out, voice still raspy from the stunning spell but even that weakness seems like a threat to the guard now. A sign of her anger, of how much closer he has driven her to hurt him.

"My spies will burn her to the ground, her and those pretty roses she keeps on her windowsill and the little black cat of hers. Muffles, is it? There will be nothing left of any of it when they are done, nothing but ashes and your own bitter sweet guilt." She croons.

"You're bluffing." Gingham swallows but his trembling hand gives away his every emotion.

"Hurt me and I guess we'll both find out soon enough, won't we?" She ambles closer to him, hands brushing past his shoulder in an almost intimate fashion. She's taller in this body, longer limbed and more gangly which while before had irritated her in the tunnels now enables her to look him in the eye. Gingham is rather short, likely around 5'9 if she has to estimate and, and he cowers beneath her gaze even as his body tries to remain stoic and statuesque.

"I can call for the others." 

"Do it. You still won't be quick enough to save her." She whispers against his ear, breath fanning out as he shivers, terrified beneath her touch.

"Roderfield."

"— is fast asleep as you saw. He won't be up for at least another thirty minutes and by my count you only have 8 and a half left before my men find themselves arsonists... Just give up, it's okay, we can both win." She sounds almost sympathetic as she pats his other shoulder.

"No we can't." He whispers back and his hand wraps around her wrist unexpectedly, wand pressing against her jugular as she takes a solitary shocked breath inwards. Panic beats through her head as he pushes her back against his chest and knees her towards the exit, her wrists positioned so painfully that she daren't move them for risk of breaking one. She might be only slightly shorter than him but his body is double as powerful, and despite her struggle against him he continues to drag her away, taunts and insults flying from his mouth. "Dirty whore" "Blood traitor" "useless bitch". She drops to the ground in an attempt to dislodge his grip but he is already prepared with his fist. A punch to the gut shuts her muffled curses up instantaneously and she hunches over as the caviar from earlier threatens to become a new carpet for them.

"You really are pathetic. I will kill you and save her, and then we will see how smart you really are, blood traitor. If you can outrun death like they all say you can."One swift move from him has her back on her feet and tighter in his grip, unable to grab for the knife in her thigh pocket nor the one further up her sleeve without risking injuring herself.

Breathe. She takes a deep breath in. Breathe. Think. There's no use in panicking when she only has a limited time before some other guard or guest sees her and her opportunity to escape undeterred is cut short. She has to distract him. Think. A sharp thud of her head backwards has him cursing as she breaks his nose and she takes the precious extra seconds to wrap her left leg beneath his knee applying pressure to the weak spot there and sending him sprawling on the floor, her with him.

"You bitch." He grapples with her arms as she recovers from the drop, his blood beginning to coat them both but she easily knocks his wand away, the wood rattling against the stone as it skids to a stop a few metres ahead of them.

"It's the Silver Serpent." She hears a soft, raspy voice echo from a nearby cell but she has no time to wonder who it is. She can't let the advantage slip away and with a well practiced quidditch manoeuvre she gains the upper hand on top of him, slipping her dagger from her sleeve and pressing the cool metal against his throat. He goes suddenly still. Silent.

"You did this to yourself, remember that." He swallows deeply as she presses the shining silver slightly deeper into his skin, drawing matching crimson and painting a curving S across his throat with it. It's not deep enough to cause any severe damage, but the scarring will stay if not treated soon.

"Tell me Gingham. Is it going to be S for sacrifice or S for salvation?" She whispers and he begins pleading beneath his breath, stray tears mingling with red as his face drips with blood.

"What about both then. I'll let you live, and you can watch your mother die." She reasons.

"Please." He begs, and she thinks she sees a ghost of remorse, of humanity beyond the glassy gaze, beyond the darkness that encompasses his every feature. She thinks she sees a man. Not a monster. No, she is the monster. That is her role. To be the Silver Serpent, unbent by the wills of mortals. A figurehead of the Phoenix rebellion, an impossible façade so intricately woven through lies and rumours that she is nothing but myth now. Gingham will pay for his recklessness as they all must do. Death is too swift a punishment, faster and easier than falling asleep. No, grief is much worse she has learnt. Grief drives even the strongest men to madness. And no uprising, no matter how structured and powerful can survive the chaos of deception and insanity. Her job is to rip them apart. Checkmate the Dark Lord from the least likely position, his own pawn.

She moves to stand above him, her silhouette a mere blur in the darkness that now shadows them both, the light from his wand having disappeared minutes before. His eyes look like beacons in the inky abyss and she supposes hers must mirror his, a last hope of sorts.

"Please." He begs, and Cynthia bites her trembling lip at the plea, the one she has heard countless times before. She hates this part. Hates herself more than ever when her hand wraps tighter around the black hilt of her dagger, when she sees her reflection in the blade, the large shadow of the unfamiliar nose and muddy orbs where hers are usually a deep cornflower blue. She is a liar, a fake, and although she takes no pleasure from the way her fingers fall into their usual position on the knife with such ease she doesn't shudder as she once had. Her blades are a part of her now. Another piece of her, like a phantom limb even. A second wand, mastered and obedient to her whims.

"I am sorry." She breathes out, the words holding little comfort for him as she brings the edge down on his heel, his Achilles tendon snapping in tandem with the little composure he has left.

"No...No..." his eyes widen in disbelief, hands clawing to hold his wound. His fingers paint themselves red with a single touch, a masterpiece of grief and horror as he tries to mend himself with guttural screams and shaking joints. His ankle is useless, a mess of tendons and flesh. He won't be walking anytime soon without medical attention. He doesn't seem to understand that though, adrenaline working against his conscious as he goes to move forward. His hands outstretch towards her feet as he attempts to crawl in her direction, foot limp behind him, raw moans trembling out of his mouth with each slight movement. She can't look away. His face is frozen in human horror. Features gripped by a look of pain that knows no end or limits; an internal wound so much deeper than the blood stained cut across his ankle and the clear S wrapped around his throat.

"Please don't kill her. She's all I have left. Please."

She turns, unable to look him in the eye anymore. She has to leave now before someone hears his screams, comes searching for the cause of them. They might already be searching for all she knows.

"I'm sorry." She whispers again with one last glance over her shoulder at his shadowed form before she forces her feet to move away. They co operate, as though on some kind of automated system, and she barely feels anything as she winds her way through the sprawling maze of cells, the excitement from before absent as her body takes the path she memorised before the mission. All she feels now is sickening adrenaline keeping her going, pumping through the network of threads covering her body. The darkness is merely a hindrance to her at this point, and she takes both turns with a familiar ease. Soon enough the stairs appear in her line of sight as she predicted, a sprawling beacon for her to follow from under the cracks of the door. Each footfall feels heavy as she throws herself up them, body tired and mind worn. The stone seems newer and the distant echo of servants and guests begin to find her ears and chase away the distant screams that have followed her from Gingham's crippled body. She still isn't sure if the echoed shouts are merely her mind playing tricks on her or reality but she has no time to dwell on either option.

"Muffliato." She casts around the doorway, finally out of the no magic zone. Hopefully that will stop anyone nearby from hearing anything. That is if she isn't going crazy and merely imagining the muffled distant screams.

For a few seconds she has to refocus her vision when she slides the door open a sliver. Each blink she spends washing away the last hour of shadows and crimson coloured memories that reside over her mind and reorganising her thoughts and plans. Thankfully the window appears to be open through the small crack in the door and she lets herself breath a sigh of relief. Least one thing has gone to plan. It must have been left slightly ajar from Proudfoot then seeing as she had made sure it was closed before hand so no suspicions were raised. Peaking her head into the light she hurriedly checks the servant corridor between her and the exit all the whilst wiping the remnants of blood from her hands. She can't leave tell tale signs of her escape route, even if the man behind her is sign enough. Dumbledore would kill her if her mother didn't first. When she hears no oncoming footsteps or the chatter of approaching guests or servants she slips crosses the hall, hands pressing against the cool stone of the windowsill as she slides through the gap in an easy and comfortable manoeuvre. The fall is slightly shorter than usual in her unfamiliar body, wind nipping at her neck as she lands quicker than anticipated. She doesn't fall though which she takes as a victory and soon she is edging along the outside wall of the manor, ivy ticking beneath her ponytail and tangling in the short strands of chestnut hair. Even now, after months of changing her appearance, the slight details catch her off guard from the foreign facial features to the height difference and the colour of her hair. She feels like somebody she shouldn't be, like some fake. Maybe she is.

Searching the gardens for any lingering presences she soon notices a stray couple entangled against the giant Oak tree near her clearing, far too occupied with sucking each other's faces off to be paying any attention to her. Still she takes the slightly longer path, concealed by thickets and bushes and spread along the outside rim of the garden. It's safer than the open clearing which is all that matters, even if she does end up muttering curses at the thorns that keep pricking her finger or the hairs that manage to get tangled in every plant she passes. But even with the longer route shehas two minutes spare when she arrives at the meeting point, the casual whistle blowing from her lips to signal her hasty arrival. The other spy whistles back and she slips into the woodland shrubbery.

"Trying to give me a heart attack, Thia?"

"No, but I guess that would be an added bonus." He laughs quietly at that, smile infectious as always. She turns away to slip her hair out of its ponytail, working the knots and picking out stray leaves that have weaved themselves into the strands. Benjamin Timmons is her second hand man, a few years her senior with cropped midnight hair and skin that reminds her of the topaz ring her father often wears on his finger, a gleaming stone of brown, mellow facades. He's also very much a worrier, although she is almost certain he would fervently deny such claims if she ever spoke the words aloud. Not that she minds his concern really. In fact she finds it almost welcoming when compared to the cool pleasantries of her mother and constant disapproval from her father. He reminds her a bit of Cyrus, her brother before the war had stolen the joy from his smile and the passion in his heart.

"Did he make it?"

"Secured and safe, as always. Apparated him to the safe house myself just to make sure."

"Good." She nods absently.

"Are you okay? Wanna tell me what happened in there?"

She shakes her head, "I'm fine, and nothing too serious. I don't really want to talk about it, okay?"

"Okay." He repeats, voice unsure of what to say to her as she moves anxiously from side to side, obviously still in a bit of distress.

"Did he have any questions?" She asks, eyes lifting from the ground. She watches his gaze travel across the red that stains her clothes. Sometimes she thinks he worries a bit too much for her. She can handle herself perfectly fine. As though reading her thoughts his gaze snaps back to hers and he blinks away his stupor, stuttering out some answer about how Proudfoot had just asked the usual questions. Who she was? How she had saved him? Was she going to be alright? Benjamin reassures her he had told him nothing of course. Cynthia merely nods along. Nothing unusual there at least.

"What's the plan with the mother? Or have you already sorted that one out." He signals to her blood soaked outfit and she ignores the concern written all over his features once again.

"Don't kill her. Just, I don't know, obliviate her or something, send her off somewhere. I don't care where." – she stumbles out her thoughts. They're choppy and nondescript but they're all she can come up with in the moment- "Then burn it down, make him think she's dead. Make them fear me, I guess." She shrugs as though the words mean nothing to her, as though she doesn't know how weak she must seem to him. Merciful and naïve, a scared little girl.

"It's okay to feel bad, Cynthia. It's okay to not want to kill her."

"My clothes, Benjamin." She raises her brow at him and he flinches at the deflection. Still he doesn't push her thankfully and instead turns to pull out a small black bag from behind him filled with her evening attire for that night.

"I've got to say I preferred the red dress from last week to this one. It was more risky." He draws out the raven coloured silk slip dress from the bag, holding it out for her as she unhooks all her weapons and slides out of her body tight skin suit, down to just her underwear.

"I'll make sure to _enlighten_ my mother about your disapproval in her fashion taste next time I see her." She smirks as his cheeks flush and she's unsure whether it's from the comment about her mother or the glimpse he got of her half naked figure. Not that they are like that at all. No, Benjamin is definitely more like a brother than anything else. He's one of the only people who know her real identity, alongside her mother and Dumbledore. And though while at first she'd been weary of trusting him, his charming smiles and easy conversation reminding her of Black, she had grown to depend on him a lot more over the last year of their shared time. A lifeline of sorts.

"Please don't." He pleads lightly and she can't help the smile that forms on her cheeks at his fear of her mother.

"Once second. _Novis immutatio_." She flicks her wrist in a quick w shape and cringes at the flash of pain that twists through her. She's certainly not gotten used to this part either. Bones cracking back into place, flesh shrinking and hair reforming as her whole body twists back into its natural form, long ivory hair trailing down to her waist and softer, untouched skin coating her now much finer joints and muscles.

"Godric, that still shocks me every time." She hears him whistle from his spot against the tree and quickly composes herself, cracking her neck back and forth as she readjusts to the feelings of her usual self.

"Then you shouldn't watch."

"It's quite hard not to, Thia." He uses that stupid nickname again.

She retorts in her usual dry manner, "well, then don't complain." Pulling the dress back over her figure to cover herself.

"School starts next week for you I hear. No more missions?" He asks and though his tone is nonchalant and bored she can tell he is curious and maybe slightly sad over the fact that he won't be seeing her nearly as much. Even if the only time they spend together is during her so called "death wish" missions.

"I don't know really. Last year I wasn't The Silver Serpent. Just some girl who passed on letters from her mother to Dumbledore. Now I'm all over the newspapers. If I suddenly stop I guess people will start getting suspicious, begin thinking I might be a student. And Dumbledore can't let that happen just yet. I'm the figurehead of this silly band of rebels he's got going for him."

"Maybe he'll let you apparate or something. You are a prefect, aren't you? No one would question it if you were gone some nights."

She shrugs, "maybe. As long as I get paid well enough, I'll do anything he wants."

Benjamin smirks to himself, commenting "that could sound very oddly sexual."

She scoffs as he hands her the diamond necklace and earring set she'd been wearing before. It's the truth, not the sexual part of course. The fact is she doesn't even like Muggles or Muggle-Born too much. They're beneath her, dirty and impure. Of course she doesn't quite want them all dead like her relatives and friends seem to but she's no blood traitor, not really. She's doing this for money and for her mother. Nothing else. No heartfelt cause or inner rebel instincts. At least that's what she tells herself. She's merely protecting her family, playing her part in this game. As her mother once told her, it is far better to be on both sides of a war than place all your hope in one. And when this war ends, should it ever truly begin, no matter who reigns victorious her family will come out on top. As they always do. That's why she does it, wears the mask of the allusive Silver Serpent, to maintain her family's grasp on power. At least that's the reason she tells herself. That and the money, of course. She has never liked the idea of complete dependency on one's husband. And if the money she saves from this can buy her a little bit of freedom from the shackles of high society than she's willing to pay the price.

"Makeup?" He goes to dig out her bag, handing her a small pocket sized mirror. She stares into her reflection for a moment but can't stand much longer.

"Not necessary. Didn't get any on my other skin so there's none on it now." She clips the mirror closed with a resound snap, hanging it back to him and pushing her hair over her shoulders.

"You should probably be heading back." He points out and she knows he's right, she's been gone almost half an hour by her estimate and her mother had told her to come as soon as she was finished to avoid suspicion. She nods in understanding as she raises herself up from buckling her heels on.

"Guess this is goodbye then." He takes a step forward and goes to hug her but she simultaneously steps back, arms crossed and brow raised.

"I'll see you soon, Benjamin." She smiles gently and pretends not to see the hurt on his face. It's not that she doesn't want to hug him, it's merely the idea of her hands touching him, staining him with the blood that she can still see slightly in the crevices of her nails. He doesn't comment on it though; he merely shakes his head at her before waving.

"A pleasure as always, Cynthia." He rolls his eyes and walks slightly further into the woods where he knows there is no magical boundary surrounding him. Then she watches from a distance as he sends her a short wink, lifting her bag ofdirty clothes over his shoulder and wand into the sky before apparating into thin air. Almost as if he was never there to begin with.

She lets herself stare for a moment, taking a deep breath in and out before she turns away. Collecting her dress she pulls herself through the thinnest part of shrubbery and back into the open gardens of Buscort Park. Back to the awaiting party and the whirlwind world that is pure blood high society parties. Back to reality and the façade that she is not sure fits her anymore. 


End file.
